


Natural Gas

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-11-05
Updated: 2001-11-05
Packaged: 2018-11-21 00:33:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11346327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Skinner falls for Krycek while helping him convalesce.





	Natural Gas

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Natural Gas by D.W. Chong

TITLE: Natural Gas  
AUTHOR: D.W. Chong  
RATING: NC-17, slash m/m  
PAIRING: Sk/K  
CATEGORY: h/c  
WARNING: major squick warning for contents/subject matter  
SUMMARY: Skinner falls for Krycek while helping him convalesce.  
AUTHOR NOTES: This story 'came' to me after...'complications' following a recent major surgery. (Although I never got as desperate as The Rat. ;) ) I think it qualifies for "subject never written about in previous slash fiction" and if it doesn't, prove me wrong. I want examples, people!  
ARCHIVE: Just tell me who (and where) you are.  
DISCLAIMERS: I don't own 'em, but I write 'em better. Nyah, nyah.  
DEDICATED TO: Josan: Happy Canadian Thanksgiving, OCT. 8TH, 2001  
FEEDBACK: to 

* * *

NATURAL GAS  
by D.W. Chong

Walter Skinner stood at the foot of the far bed and raised the enema bucket to let the warm water flow between the shapely buttocks of his arch nemesis, Alex Krycek.

With half of the water in the quart container 'in reserve,' Skinner lowered the bucket to the floor to let it refill once more. When the water lacked an inch of its starting level, Skinner raised it again so as not to break the suction he was trying to sustain. Suction, according to their resident medico, being the aim of this particular procedure, (otherwise known as a "Harris Flush").

//Raise the bucket, lower the bucket,// Skinner thought. //Water in. Water out.... Up...down...up...down.... Exactly when,// he wondered, //did my life become a Daliesque farce?//

He looked at the source of his current predicament with a mix of lust, pity, and --wonder of wonders-- admiration. If anyone had told him six months ago that the sight, the thought, the very mention of Alex Krycek's name would evoke anything besides pure, blinding rage, he would have called in a Psychiatric Emergency Team and had them committed. The fact that the worst emotion he could muster against the Rat Bastard was vague resentment shocked him down to his argyle socks.

//Walt, old buddy, old pal,// he told himself, //you need to have your head examined.//

He settled for examining Krycek's magnificent ass.

Krycek, for his part, tried his best to pretend that he wasn't holed up in some seedy motel with an enema tube up his ass, a surly Assistant Director of the F.B.I who had appointed himself Chief of the Buttwater Brigade, and a male nurse who had acquired a few more holes in his anatomy than the original design specs made allowances for.

Naked and curled into a fetal position, nose to the wall, Krycek had wrapped his remaining arm around his waist and was hugging himself as if in reassurance that this really was just a nightmare that he could awaken from, if he could but hold himself together a few more minutes. Skinner set the bucket into the circle of towels at Krycek's feet and stepped into the aisle between the two single beds that dominated the floorspace, making a cursory check of the near bed's occupant, one Dashiel "Dash" Emmett, R.N.

Dash was sleeping peacefully for the moment, the best Skinner could hope for considering Dash's three broken ribs, two bullet grazes, and one sucking chest wound, (neatly plugged with a square of saran wrap, a wad of torn t-shirting, and some duct tape by The Rat himself with such alacrity Skinner had wondered if he'd plied the remedy upon his own person in the past).

Dash could --perhaps should-- have simply let Skinner sign Krycek out of the hospital AMA, but when he'd discovered they were fleeing because Skinner had heard there was going to be an attempt on Krycek's life he had turned heroic on them, insisting that his patient needed his nurse, so he had gathered up all the supplies a man in Krycek's 'condition' might need, and insisted on accompanying them. Unfortunately, the attempt had been made, with Dash and the would be assasin suffering the only injuries, and now Skinner, as the only hale member of their party, found himself juggling the logistics of running for their lives and ministering to their wounds while maintaining their anonymity.

Dash had yet to utter even one syllable of complaint, despite the fact that the only reason he was being denied medical care was --incredibly enough-- Krycek's inability to fart.

Skinner snickered at the very thought and Krycek, who had resigned himself to being the resident "butt of the Joke" shuttered his eyes with his sinfully lush lashes while his hand spasmed over its palmful of flesh as if to wring the life out of it.

Still, he said nothing. What was there to say? 'Who knew farting was so important?'

He hadn't been able to look Skinner in the eye for days.

Skinner checked his watch, then bent to click off the lamp on the nightstand between the two beds, retreating to the plain wooden chair pushed against the wall separating the bathroom from the closet.

The room's sole window, rendered useless for ventilation purposes by a bulky air conditioner that blocked its opening, was centered roughly over Dash's bed. The room's only egress was so close to the end of Dash's bed the door hit mattress two inches past the perpendicular. The heater in the wall opposite the door would have been a fire hazard had it not been situated halfway to the ceiling. Thankfully, the weather was mild enough that neither unit was in use since, in Walter's estimation, they looked to be those appliance's patent prototypes.

Skinner rubbed his face with both hands, wishing for a bottle of scotch to ease the tedium of waiting --waiting for Krycek to fart! Were their circumstances less dire he'd laugh himself sick, but Dashiel Emmett was willing to die from neglect rather than abandon his patient in such a condition, and you couldn't get anymore serious --or surreal-- than that.

According to Dash, the lack of gas meant the lack of peristalsis, the rhythmic contractions of the bowel which moved the intestine's contents from one end to the other. Whenever someone had general anesthesia, their bowels went to sleep. Once the bowels 'woke up' they had to re-synchronize their contractions, or the passage of waste and gases could get stuck somewhere, causing the bowel tissue to inflame, die off, or rupture, which was, of course, life threatening, and necessitated yet another surgery.

Needless to say, Krycek's bowels were not cooperating. Six days after surgery, they had yet to synchronize. The first two days, he'd still not been allowed solid food, so no one was really worried. When three meals had failed to stimulate the production of gas, they had given Krycek a carbonated soda to 'jump start' his emissions. It had boiled through his intestines like wildfire --then 'stuck'. The resulting pocket of gas had and was giving the rat excruciating cramps with no relief in sight. His doctor had immediately ordered suppositories, then a Harris flush, then a series of Harris flushes alternating with enemas of ever-increasing volume.

Krycek's next enema was slated to be two quarts, the one after, if needed, three quarts, although they hinged on whether or not there were any results from the current flush in the next three hours. As a last resort, Dash had in his possession a syringe of a drug that would stimulate the bowels --hopefully with lasting results. If *that* failed, Krycek would have to go back into a hospital and undergo further surgery, and possibly a permanent colostomy.

Krycek had survived on the run with one arm, but one arm and a colostomy bag? Skinner figured the Rat may as well off himself, (something Krycek, in the throes of pain, had already volunteered to do twice). Who says God doesn't have a sense of the absurd? Fartlessness and a carbonated soda had accomplished what one serial torturer-killer could not, namely: sapping Krycek's will to live. Not that Krycek was complaining any more than Dash. If anything, the pouty Rat had self-mortified himself into virtual silence.

Skinner found his abashment oddly endearing.

It having been a long day and with nothing to do but listen for bubbles, Skinner nodded off, dreaming himself six weeks back in time, to the culminating event of this landmark case.

Mulder and he, leading a team of local F.B.I. agents and police, had just crashed through the doors of the serial killer's warehouse lair, guns and flashlights leveled, when he inexplicably found himself focused on Krycek's ass. Time froze as Krycek's unblemished ass cheeks loomed with disproportionate clarity, not unlike the way a gun barrel seemed to fill up one's field of vision when it was menacingly pointed one's way. Indeed, it had winked at him like a signal light, reflecting their seven cell torch beams with such perfect, ethereal roundness Skinner was convinced it must be the butt that had first evoked comparison to the silvery moon.

It was the kind of ass women passers-by would turn around and stare at: full, firm, shapely, prime grade beefcake. It looked pristine, untouched, unblemished, unused, unabused. It was none of those things, but it *was* supremely beautiful. And it had made Skinner's cock twitch to attention faster than any female centerfold he'd ogled in the last twenty years.

His last excursion up the homosexual Hershey Highway flitted over his mind's eye. It had been an aberration he had thought he'd left behind with the rest of the craziness that was 'Nam. Sharon's willingness to accommodate his sexual quirks had helped to further distance him from that particular career-ending pitfall, but Krycek's ass was an undeniable beacon of lust that lit his wick brighter than a shellful of willy-pete. His reaction was patently ridiculous, under the circumstances, but, he admitted, no less compelling for its inappropriateness.

Then Mulder had yelled: "F.B.I! You're under arrest!" and Krycek had begun screaming: "Kill him!" at the top of his lungs. Time had snapped back into gear like a rubber band over an unwary wrist and Krycek was twenty feet away again and six feet up, suspended from the ceiling by two hooks wickedly impaling his breasts. His arm and stub had been zip-lined to a length of rebar, immobilizing them in a Christly extension made bizarre by the carefully coifed wig and immaculate make-up he wore. He sported a pair of emerald green fishnet stockings that matched his eye shadow, and a pair of 'fuck me' stiletto heeled pumps and garter belt that matched the color of his lipstick. His purpled cock was bound in a five ringed "gates of hell" harness, and two pound weights were stretching his chained balls to their fleshy limit. His back and stomach were criss-crossed with bloody welts and Kapustcha was standing between Krycek's dangling legs bathing in the blood drizzling from Krycek's anus. How Krycek's butt had remained so white and clean throughout his torture remained a mystery for the ages.

Kapustcha had grinned at them and smugly held up his hands in insincere surrender, confident that, as had happened twice before, his black ops' version of a "get out of jail free" card would allow him to skate free of any charges leveled against him before dinner.

But Skinner had ignored Kapustcha's raised hands. He'd obliged the Rat and shot Kapustcha cleanly through the forehead, (then claimed the man had threatened him with the knife he'd used on Krycek). He had yet to feel bad about committing the cold-blooded murder, although he did suffer a twinge or two of conscience about Mulder's backing up his lie. (Mulder had more than made up for it by venting his spleen privately, howling at Skinner like a turpentined cat).

Killing Kapustcha was the price Skinner had agreed to pay for Krycek's cooperation during the investigation. And Krycek had been amazingly forthcoming, producing files that had not only furthered the investigation, but had laid bare his own past, allowing them a rare view into his core psyche. The fact that Kapustcha had been one of Smokey's scientists --and one sick fuck to boot, having tortured and murdered 18 men over the last fifteen years- and that aiding and abetting the Rat Bastard in this crusade to take Kapustcha out had thrown a monkey-wrench into the Cigarette Smoking Bastard's dastardly plans was merely icing on the cake.

Walter started awake. He blinked, stretched, checked his watch, and moaned. "Any luck, Krycek?"

"No."

Walter sighed and lowered the bucket to the floor. Once the water had drained all the way out, Walter went into the bathroom and prepared two quarts of warm soapy water for a thorough, deep enema. He replaced the tube in Krycek's ass and held the bucket high enough for the water to flow steadily into Krycek's bowels.

"Jesus God, Skinner! What're you trying to do: drown me from the inside?"

Walter chuckled. "Good one. Just pray it works."

Krycek moaned piteously. "A bullet would be faster."

"Shh, shh, shh," Walter said soothingly, as the last of the liquid disappeared into Krycek's bowels. He withdrew the tube and sat on the edge of the bed. "You need to hold it for at least fifteen minutes."

Krycek moaned again. "I don't think I can."

"Let me help." Skinner began to run his palm over Krycek's abdomen, massaging the water further into his bowels. "Better?"

"No," he said curtly. "Why don't you try squeezing my butt cheeks together so I don't projectile-spew enema water all over the mattress."

Skinner thanked God Krycek's face was to the wall, because he couldn't help licking his chops. "How about I stick my finger up your dyke, instead?" he said, as his big paw obligingly pinched Krycek's ass.

"Not big enough," Krycek said disingenuously.

"Hm. Would you rather I used my dick?"

"What?" Krycek looked back into Skinner's lust-filled gaze as if only now realizing the direction the conversation had taken. "Oh, shit."

"That *is* the general idea," Skinner grinned.

Krycek let his head flop limply onto his bed. He knew when he was out-maneuvered. "Whatever."

"Not 'whatever'," Skinner disagreed. "I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to."

"Yeah, right," Krycek sneered. "I'd ask you to pull the other one but you'd probably take it the wrong way."

Skinner shifted deliberately to allow himself a peek at Krycek's cock, quiescent, if inviting, in its nest of dark curls. It lay on his thigh like a basking lizard, the tip of his glans gleaming from the shelter of his puckered foreskin like the wary eye of an old world chameleon. Skinner remembered how it had looked rampant and needy, and swallowed. Hard. Krycek had given him the perfect set up. //Now or never.//

"You mean...," he reached out and seized Krycek's cock, pulling the silken foreskin away from the glans and cinching his fingers over the rim, back and forth, back and forth."...there's a wrong way to pull it?"

Krycek gasped and his ass clenched in reflexive excitement while his penis flushed and filled, twitching like a fire hose when the hydrant was first tapped. "P-please!" he pleaded. "Don't!"

Skinner's hand froze. "Too much like Kapustcha?

"Nuh-no," Krycek stammered. "Nothing like that. I- I'm just not in the mood."

"So..., I simply repulse you on General Principals?"

"No! God, Skinner! I'm too sick to play sex games, OK?"

Skinner chuckled and resumed pumping Krycek's penis. It danced in his hand as if eager for more. "I don't think your dick understands that you're too sick to come out and play. Tell me, honestly: do you feel worse than you did before I started?"

Krycek sighed. "...*No*.... But I don't feel any *better*, either!" he said shortly.

Relieved by Krycek's confession, Skinner grinned and rubbed his thumb over the slit of Krycek's glans till it was leaking pearls of precum.

"Then I'll just have to try harder, won't I?"

So saying, Skinner clambered onto the bed, bent over, and swallowed Krycek's penis to the balls.

Krycek screeched and bucked into the moist hole with shocked pleasure. Skinner sucked and pulled away till his lips hit the rim of Krycek's glans, then he fluttered the tip of his tongue over the head and into the slit before swallowing him to the root once more. Krycek whimpered, but Skinner wasn't done by half. His left hand fondled Krycek's balls, then delved below them, stroking the ridge of perineum while his right hand squeezed the base of Krycek's cock with a one, two, three, release, one, two, three, release finger roll.

Krycek's feet began rubbing against each other as if he'd transformed into an amorous cricket, his breath ragged from his throat in husky sighs, and his eyes clamped shut as he tried to ignore the internal sloshing of water and the ache of trapped gas in his too full bowels. Skinner's tongue was fluttering its way up the vein on the underside of Krycek's cock. His left index finger pushed between Krycek's buttocks to circle his twitching anus. Flutter, circle, suck; flutter circle, suck. Krycek's hips began to rock in time with Skinner's ministrations. Skinner felt Krycek's balls draw up and intensified his sucking.

Krycek wailed. "Ahh! Gonna cum! Skinner! Gonna- Oh, *God*!"

Skinner gummed Krycek's glans as it spurted load after load of creamy cum into his mouth. It tasted sweet and salty, like well seasoned farina with just a hint of essence of Krycek. Skinner rolled the stuff over his tongue, savoring the flavor, texture, and sheer volume of the portion, mixing it with his own saliva before gulping it down in a frothy lump. Krycek's tummy grumbled. Loudly. He grimaced and fought not to strain.

"Skinner! Oh, God, Skinner! Help me up, I've got to go- now!"

Skinner hauled the hapless assassin off the bed and bustled him into the toilet, then stood in the doorway watching...waiting.

Krycek focused his attention on his grumbling gut. One one thousand. Two one thousand. The roar of expelled water was so loud Skinner was mildly surprised Krycek hadn't levitated off the toilet seat from the sheer force of it. The deluge poured out like animals stampeding in front of a wildfire. Krycek strained and gushed and moaned and pushed and grunted and massaged his belly. The water trickled to a halt. Krycek closed his eyes, took a breath, and strained again. And, at long last, after six whole days, the clarion blatt of a firm and commanding fart resounded in the bowl.

No elk had ever issued a finer challenge to the world.

"Oh, thank God!" Alex cried as he slumped against the tank with abject relief. "I feel human again," he said, then his breath hitched as he heard his own words, and he hunched his shoulders, expecting the obvious retort that would signal the end of their negotiated truce...that didn't come. He looked up at Skinner wonderingly. The A.D. was smiling at him.

"Congratulations, Alex. You've survived again."

Krycek smiled shakily, gratefully, genuinely. He dropped his gaze and looked past Skinner to the third member of their party. "Guess I'd better get dressed and get out of here so you can get Dash to the hospital, huh?"

Skinner nodded and stepped to the closet, hauling out the bags of clothing he'd bought for the Rat during his convalescence and laying them on the empty bed, along with Alex's prosthetic, his hardware, and a knapsack.

Krycek wiped himself, flushed the toilet, washed, and came out to rummage through the sacks, pulling out a three pack of t-shirts, a three pack of briefs, and a six pack of crew socks, all white, one pair of blue jeans, a burgundy flannel shirt, a tan pair of steel-toed boots, and --his breath caught- a brand new black leather jacket to replace the one Kapustcha had ruined.

Alex ran his hand over the buttery skin, clenched it to inhale its tannery scent into his lungs, to smooth it over his cheeks. The other stuff was necessary, but the jacket! The jacket was a luxury. "Thanks, Walter."

"Hey. Nobody would recognize you without it."

Krycek grinned. "Yeah.... Thanks anyway. In fact, thanks for hauling my ass out of the hospital before somebody smoked it. Too, uh, too bad I'm not a nicer person or I'd return the favor. I leave here and it's back to the same old, same old," he warned.

Skinner nodded. He hadn't expected anything less. Alex Krycek was not the sort who gave up his advantages without cause, and having an Assistant Director of the F.B.I. in one's pocket was too sweet a hand to fold.

Fortunately, Skinner had discovered something important during the three months they'd worked this case: Alex Krycek wasn't as big a rat bastard as he made himself out to be. He actually possessed a spark of humanity deep inside his treacherous hide, as well as a hither-to unsuspected willingness to sacrifice himself for the greater good. He hadn't had to offer himself up as bait, but he had, despite knowing what would happen to him, having survived it twice before, having no guarantee he would survive a third time.

If he fought dirty, it was only because he intended to win. That was an attitude --and a strategy-- Walter could respect. Then there was the added incentive of discovering that the Rat's motives did not necessarily mesh with Smoky's. And the fact that being wholly at Krycek's beck and call made him impervious to Mr. Morley's manipulations. He had been moved out of the enemy camp into the firm, grey void of no man's land. And, all things considered, he preferred limbo. No, there were worse things in life than going down in the annals of history as the man who helped Alex Krycek achieve his ulterior aims. Yes, Walter Sergei Skinner had undergone a most remarkable attitude adjustment, and it was reflected in his next words.

"Not *everything* will be the same old, same old, I hope," Skinner husked in a come-hither croon.

Krycek gulped. This couldn't be his surly A.D. "You --you mean...you'd want...*me*...again?" he stammered hopefully.

Skinner stepped forward and pressed his chest against Krycek's. He gripped Krycek's bare ass and locked his lips to Alex's, tasting him, exploring him.

Krycek froze for just an instant, then daringly thrust his tongue into Skinner's mouth, tasting, tussling, running his hand up Skinner's muscled back, down his sculpted ass, into his pants, and between his crack.

Skinner kneaded Krycek's ass, bumped their groins together, rubbed their penises to attention.

"Fuck me, Walter!" Krycek pleaded.

"No."

Krycek pulled away, suddenly suspecting he'd been played. "*No*?!"

"It wouldn't be fair to Dash," Skinner said with a simple nod of his head.

Krycek deflated, but nodded acquiescence. "Yeah. You're right. Go on. Get him to the hospital."

"No, you take the car. I can call 911."

"Krycek shook his head. "It's a rental. They wouldn't get it or their money back unless you reported it stolen."

"Fair enough. I'll drop you at the bus station."

Krycek shrugged. "No fare money."

Skinner hauled out his wallet and counted out two hundred dollars. "There. That ought to get you back to D.C."

"But we drop Dash at the hospital, first," Krycek said as he snatched the money gratefully. "Last one to D.C. buys the beer."

"You're on."

#

Walter Skinner opened his door warily. It had been three months since he'd dropped Krycek off at the Barstow Bus Station, but at 5 p.m., when he'd been settling in for another long night of overtime at the office, he'd been hit with a brief pulsing of nanocytes. Krycek's signal to expect an appearance. When the Rat hadn't made his presence known by 7 p.m., Walter decided to go home.

Skinner turned on the lights, shut and locked the front door, but left his keys in the lock in case he needed to make a quick get-away. He did not take off his holster, but he did take his weapon in hand before prowling the condo's ground floor. Nothing. He made his way silently upstairs. The door to his bedroom was ajar. He placed the flat of his palm against it and pushed it wide, bounding through the opening, gun drawn.

Krycek was stretched naked on his mattress, balancing the remains of a six pack of beer on his stomach. The sixth can was in his fist. Alex took another swig. "Hey, Big Guy, can Little Walter come out to play?" he smirked and, waggling his toes at the burly A.D., he dribbled some brew into his navel. "Care for a taste?" he offered lecherously.

Skinner returned the smirk, holstering his weapon. "S'matter of fact, I would --*after* I check the room for bugs."

Alex shrugged, not bothering to tell Skinner he'd already swept the entire condo. "Suit yourself, but the beer's gettin' warm."

"That's OK. I survived England," Walter smiled. Satisfied, he stripped and joined the Rat on his bed, slurping up the dollop of booze before liberating his own can and popping it. He chugged it down, tossed the empty cavalierly over his shoulder, and braced himself on his arms to capture Krycek's mouth."Hmm...."

Krycek set his own can on the shelf behind his head, where he'd previously laid out lube and condoms. "Wanna suck your cock," he murmured as Walter came up for air.

Walter scooted up to allow Alex access to the requested organ. Krycek kissed and licked it teasingly, until a growl from Walter impelled him to attack it whole-heartedly. He sucked it rigid and pulled off.

"Hmm.... Been dreaming of this. Tastes so fine. Fuck me, Walter. Fuck me now."

Walter availed himself of the convenient supplies, but took a moment to explore Krycek's depths with a few well lubricated fingers. He could feel the ridges of scar tissue in Krycek's rectum, hard cords amid the silky heat, so he slowed to work the tight passage loose, not wanting to injure Krycek when he penetrated him.

Krycek snarled like a boneless cat. "Come on, baby, don't keep me waiting."

"*'Baby'*?!" Skinner protested, but he obligingly positioned his cock at Alex's hole and drove it home with a quick thrust. "I'm nobody's baby."

Krycek gasped at the sudden fullness. "OK. Fine. Monster. Giant. Leviathan."

Walter froze as well, trying not to explode on impact.

Krycek, sensing his distress, began to milk him with his inner muscles, wanting him frantic.

Skinner growled again. "Stop that!" He squeezed the base of his penis to force a little control over the situation.

Krycek grinned wickedly, but relaxed as ordered.

Skinner sighed with relief. When he felt ready, he began to move. In. Out. In. Out. The ridges of scar tissue were actually stimulating, like a built-in French Tickler.

"Oh, yeah!" Krycek crowed. "Make it burn!" He ground his own hips in counterpoint to Skinner's. "Yes! Like that! Right there! Do it again!"

Skinner felt his balls draw up. He thrust harder, faster. Slamming his balls against Krycek's ass. Again. Again. He roared, his ass spasmed, his back bowed, his teeth clenched, and his orgasm spewed out of him, filling the latex sheath. He collapsed on his bed partner and wheezed like an old steam engine for a few minutes, then he clamped a hand around the top of the condom and carefully pulled free with a grunt and a wet "smack."

Directly on the heels of liberation, Krycek farted loudly, long, and most foully.

Skiner leapt off the bed, fanning his arms, and rushed to open a window. "Jesus Christ, Krycek! That was lethal!"

Krycek smirked. "Hell, Skinner, nothing's better than cooking with gas!"

###

END

  
Archived: November 02, 2001 


End file.
